Natural Selection
by BabalooBlue
Summary: Things changed for House after the infarction. Now he needs a little help on his return to work. First item on the agenda: select a new team. Set before the pilot.
1. Chapter 1

**_This story has been in part inspired by Snownut's fantastic One Week fic. If you haven't read it, then you really should. Go on, you know you want to! _**

**_A BIG thank you, as always, goes to maineac. _**

* * *

_House_

He knew he should have been grateful to Cuddy for putting all this into motion. And yet, all he could bring himself to feel was resentment. Even that was probably too strong a word, too strong a feeling. He didn't exactly resent her, but he knew a big part of why she went through all this, to create this new department, was her guilt over what had happened all those months ago. The diagnosis he had had to make himself, the diagnosis that should have come so much earlier. Guilt that Cuddy vehemently denied.

Of course he had said it to her face.

"You're only doing this because you feel guilty."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned back behind her desk.

"Guilty? I have nothing to feel guilty about, House. What happened was not my decision, it was Stacy's, and you know it. And I know you know because you made her pay dearly for that decision."

So this was how she was going to play it.

"And we both know she didn't think up that procedure by herself, lawyers don't usually come up with complicated surgical procedures without being prompted. Someone must've suggested it to her. Someone who thinks middle ground is safe. Some middle ground physician who is worried about her hospital's reputation. Someone who mistakenly believes that _I_ am someone who can live on middle ground."

He leaned back on the visitor couch, watching for even the minutest of reactions across the room. There was nothing obvious there – or obvious to anyone but House. Yet, the way she sat ramrod straight behind her desk, the way her hand held on tight to the pen that she wasn't writing with…

She had called him in to tell him about this brand new plan of hers. He still hadn't fully recovered from the last surgery to place a stent in his femoral artery; officially he was still on sick leave. But Cuddy had insisted he come in, somehow knowing that he had been able to get around better of late. Wilson, the old tattletale.

Cuddy was uncomfortable, and he could tell. He had always been able to tell with her. She might be able to fool all the department heads and donors she had to schmooze but she couldn't fool him. He could still read her so well. His mood picked up slightly. Even though she thought she had him at her beck and call, he knew better. Yes, she had made him leave the safe haven of his apartment, hobbling along on the new cane, trying to dodge all the curious looks in the corridors. But it was clear that he held the strings now. And he was intent on pulling them to his advantage. Nothing elaborate, just a little tug every now and then.

"Cuddy, you and I both know whose idea the debridement was and that it didn't quite work as expected. But we also know that I'm not the vengeful type. Well, at least not generally. So let's cut to the chase. You've called me here for a reason. If this new department were just a suggestion, you would've just sent me an email with a general outline. This has long progressed past the suggestion stage. Knowing you, you've got this all wrapped up already, with a nice little bow on top. So, show me what you got."

Hole in one.

* * *

_Cuddy_

It would have been easy to say the surgeries and the pain had turned House into an obnoxious bastard. But Lisa Cuddy knew that wasn't the case. He had always been annoying. Now he was simply annoying times two. And annoyingly right, too.

She had told him that she didn't feel guilty but she knew she hadn't fooled him. And she definitely hadn't fooled herself. Yes, she knew nobody would blame her for outlining a possible surgical option to Stacy who was, after all, House's medical proxy at the time. It's what doctors do – they present all the possible options so the patient, or his proxy, can make an informed decision. But was that what she had done? All the options, really? House had made an informed decision, but it was one that nobody else was happy with. By rights, they didn't need to be. It was his leg, his life. She had suggested amputation, knowing full well he wouldn't go for it even though it was the most sensible and safest option at the time. The bypass House had wanted-and got-had been successful as far as anyone could tell, effectively saving his leg. But neither she nor Stacy could stand House being in so much pain. Neither could he. When Cuddy suggested the debridement she knew Stacy would go for this as soon as House was in the medically induced coma he had requested. Stacy believed her because Cuddy was House's attending. Because House himself was not objective anymore. Because the surgery _could_ have worked. Could have, should have. But it hadn't. He was still in an incredible amount of pain, only held at bay by opiates. It was probably less pain than without the surgery but there was no way to tell.

Seeing House come in for surgery after surgery for complications arising from the procedure had been hard on her. Not as hard as for him, obviously. But every time he had picked up a new infection, every time he had another breakthrough pain episode, she felt guiltier than before. She had not had any other choice, she knew. That didn't make this any easier, though. For the last month, she had actively tried to avoid him. She knew his PT schedule through Wilson and timed her meetings so that she would be busy when House had to be going in or out of the hospital.

But she couldn't avoid him any longer; she had to look at him now, carefully draped across her visitor's couch. The intended effect was one of relaxed casualness, like he couldn't care less whether he was here or not, whether he was seated there or on the chair facing her desk. He would have fooled most people. When he came into her office she had caught the quick assessing look he threw around the room. In less than a second he had decided on the seat that was going to be most comfortable for him to get in and out of.

Gone was the ease with which he used to move around any room he chose to enter. Gone was the strength and grace of a sportsman. Nowadays she quietly rejoiced in the fact that he had graduated from the walker on to crutches and, just recently, on to a cane.

But the time for regrets, if not outright guilt, was gone. Now it was time to face him, time to put some things right. She couldn't give him back his old life. But she could give him something else.

"The diagnostics department, I know you're not opposed to the general idea. I know you took two or three unofficial consults from other hospitals in the area before your last surgery."

Neither of them really wanted to go into more detail on that last surgery and what had made it necessary. An attempt to return to work too early, breakthrough pain on top of that and no emergency pain medication at home. It had been a disaster. She knew he was lucky Wilson had found him that time.

House looked at her and nodded for her to go on. Good, she was on the right track. He wanted this even though he would never say so out loud.

"The board has agreed in principle, pending some details that we need to iron out now. The department will be nowhere near the size of your old one, House, you need to know that right from the off."

She didn't think this would be a problem per se. House didn't like managing people because of all the administration it involved. He hated paperwork. He hated meetings. As long as he had what he needed he wouldn't gripe about having fewer people working under him.

"How small are we talking?"

"I have approval for three fellows…" Cuddy knew she could get the board to approve at least one more but there were other items she would need to get past them and she would rather use their goodwill for those than an additional fellow House probably wouldn't need. Three was down two from his previous department, though, and she peered up at House to gauge his reaction. Nothing, not even the smallest twitch in his face. God, that man was good. She had to remember never to play poker with him.

"Go on."

"You have free reign on recruitment, final approval by me", she added and looked down at the list on her desk. "I've taken the liberty of posting the openings. Applications have already started coming in."

House leaned forward, now sitting at the edge of the couch, both hands on the handle of his new cane, the expression on his face unreadable. Had she moved too fast?

"You really don't waste any time, Cuddy. Why the hurry? Do you miss me that much?"

There was that smirk on his face. Good. She had not been too fast then. His curiosity was piqued; he wanted to know what else she had arranged already. Good.

She allowed herself the indulgence of smiling back at him. "Yes, I do. I'd like to see you back at work as soon as you feel up to it. I think the new meds are working, don't you?"

Now, this was dangerous ground. Being on opiates had serious consequences for House, which was why he had resisted them for so long. It was why he had spent months trying out different combinations of non-opioids, all to no avail. He knew he couldn't continue practicing as before, the normal way other doctors ran their practice or their department. He wouldn't be able to do his own procedures, never mind surgeries. He would never admit it to her face, but this was going to be hard on him. In the years he had been working here, he had been very hands-on; he had liked to have control of the important things. Things would change drastically for him. Which was why she intended to give him almost complete freedom in choosing his fellows: he would have to rely on them for every single procedure involving future patients.

House narrowed his eyes and she knew he was trying to figure out where she was going with this. They both knew that she knew the Vicodin was working as well as could be hoped.

"Ye-es, the meds are working, we know that. I'm doing okay, Cuddy. Look!" He proudly waved his cane at her, his voice dripping with irony. If it hadn't been for that hint of sadness in his eyes when he laughed at her like this…

Cuddy pulled herself together. No time for sentimentalities now. On with the show.

"It will be a small department, House. But I think small can be beautiful, don't you? Do you feel up to taking a look?"

She registered the short moment of hesitation before he began to push off from the couch, and she looked back at the papers on her desk, so he wouldn't catch her watching him. When she looked up next he was almost at the door already. He was definitely moving faster, she noted with some relief. She just hoped he was steady enough on his feet to walk to his new office from here.

He stood at the door, waiting for her.

"Come on, let's go see my new playroom!"

House didn't hold the door for her, not that she had expected him to. Some things never changed.

* * *

_Wilson_

When he saw House and Lisa walking along the corridor towards his own office, he changed his mind about going to the washroom. That could wait. Instead he leaned against the outside of his office door and watched the two approach.

Lisa was, as always, impeccably turned out. Skirt a bit too tight maybe but her top was sensible enough today, and so were her shoes. For an administrator, anyway. No way she could spend a day in those shoes dealing with patients. But then, she didn't have to. She was walking along briskly as always. After every few steps, though, there were two or three slower ones. It was barely noticeable to the casual observer but Wilson was anything but.

He had spent the last few months becoming an astute observer of people. People called Gregory House, to be specific. People called House who never said the whole truth or gave a clear answer to any question – whether they were hungry or thirsty or in pain or needed help. Everything was only half true, every bit of information hidden behind something else. James Wilson had learned to read between the lines, to interpret frowns and looks and almost inaudible sighs. Having moved in with House for a while after the initial surgery and Stacy's departure, he had become a top-notch interpreter of House speak.

He had learned to gauge House's pain level from the way he sat on his couch. He knew when it was time to draw his friend a hot bath just by looking at how tightly House held onto the cane in his hand. He knew to interpret "I'm not really hungry" as "the meds are making me nauseous and I need another dose of Compazine".

James Wilson also knew it was a good day when, for the first time in months, he saw House looking at his piano with longing. He had avoided the piano ever since the infarction, knowing it would cause too much pain to sit on the bench, knowing that he couldn't depress the pedal with his foot. But that evening he didn't need to ask his friend about pain levels, he knew the Vicodin was doing its job. Finally they had found something that worked. When he left that night, he closed the door on an apartment filled once again with music.

But his House specialization came in handy with other subjects, too. He could tell Lisa was slowing herself down so House could keep up with her, whether she did it consciously or not.

James' eyes moved on to his best friend. He was still as tall as ever, especially next to Lisa. But leaning on his new cane, canting heavily from side to side as he moved, he seemed smaller somehow, less than before. Gone were the days of quick and fluid movement, of Wilson panting for air trying to catch up with House sprinting up the stairs. And he had lost a huge amount of weight. His clothes were hanging off him. Wilson made a mental note to take House clothes shopping in the next few days.

But he was glad to see his friend rolling and pitching down the corridor like a ship in a storm. He was upright. He was walking. He was off the crutches. He was at work and not sitting at home on his couch, brow knotted in pain, feeling useless.

A smile crept onto his face just as House lifted his gaze and spotted him outside his office.

"Are you the welcome committee? Of course you were in on it, you sneaky bastard!"

Trust House to pretend to be upset about Wilson knowing something before he did.

"Yes, House, I'm here to welcome my new neighbor. I even made a cake and bought a potted plant for the occasion."

That withering look from House didn't fool Wilson even for a second. He was secretly glad his new office was situated next to Wilson's.

Together the three of them moved on down the corridor to stop in front of a big glass wall. Lisa opened the door with a flourish.

"Voila! Your new conference room, House."

House slowly moved inside, taking in the long table surrounded by several chairs, the kitchenette in the corner and the shelves yet to be filled with his books.

"I need a whiteboard", he griped. "And a proper coffee machine, not this cheap contraption."

Lisa shot Wilson a knowing look. Clearly she had been prepared for this. Neither of them was expecting House to show gratitude. That's not why they were doing this. And it was _they_; the details of House's new offices were as much Wilson's work as the whole idea to create this department had been Lisa's in the first place.

While she scribbled something on a notepad, Wilson followed House through the door into his new office.

House stopped so abruptly inside the door that Wilson bumped into his back. Quickly he grabbed House's elbow to stop him from toppling over. He wasn't exactly steady on his feet these days.

"Sorry", he muttered and expected a biting remark in return. But none was forthcoming. Wilson looked up into House's face and followed his look to the Eames chair in the corner.

"What's this?", House asked and pointed over at the chair with his free hand. There was something in his voice Wilson couldn't quite decipher. It didn't sound right somehow.

Wilson skipped over to the chair and protectively put his hand on the backrest. The chair, like almost everything else in here, had been his idea. His best one, he thought. Better even than the kitchenette in the conference room.

"It's an Eames chair, House. You know, for people to sit in. For _you_ to sit in. When you need some rest. When you want to think or read..."

Wilson suddenly realized why he was treading on dangerous ground and why House was not happy about the chair. Not happy at all.

House had never been a good sleeper but the long nights spent in agony, the different combinations of medication - anti-clotting, pain meds, anti-emetics - they all meant that he hadn't slept through a single night since the infarction. As long as he was at home he was able to take naps during the day, for as long and as often as he needed. Once he was back to work full-time, though, he would need to find another solution. A couch in here would have been far too obvious; Wilson knew he would never accept it and the board would probably raise an eyebrow or two if they spotted a couch on the inventory list. So he had found the Eames chair, hoping it would be a compromise House wouldn't recognize as such. Hoping that it was subtle enough. It was certainly subtle enough for the board, as they hadn't even frowned at the chair being on the purchasing list.

But of course he had been wrong about House. House would always be able to see through Wilson, the same way Wilson saw through House's token attempt at being upset about this. He decided on a gamble.

"Here, check it out, House", he said and flopped down in the chair. "I rescued it from Simpson's claws. Some OB/GYN doc had ordered it but then decided he'd rather take up a position at Princeton General, so this was going cheap. I had to be quick to grab this baby."

He propped his feet up on the footstool and grinned at House like the cat that got the cream. Or was it the canary? Well, we'd see about that, maybe in a second he'd be the canary the housecat got.

House stood halfway across the room. He still hadn't moved from where Wilson had bumped into him. His eyes narrowed at Wilson, as if he knew what he was up to. And, this being House, he probably did. But, in the space of a second, he decided to play along with Wilson's game. He limped over to the chair and pushed Wilson's feet off with his cane.

"Move!"

Wilson jumped up and got out of the way, only to turn around and watch House fold his lanky frame awkwardly down into the chair. He would get used to it. He had to, he had no other choice.

With both hands supporting his right thigh, House lifted his legs onto the ottoman and then leaned back. He glared at Wilson.

"So you thought this would be a good idea to get one over on Simpson while getting me a comfy chair at the same time… you have learned well from the master, young James!"

Wilson breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Without words, it seemed both he and House had agreed that this ruse was good enough – they would pretend to have outwitted Simpson while what they had really done was get House a means to rest during the day that was subtle enough not to hurt his vanity.

He walked over to the window behind House's new desk. When he turned around to look at his friend, he was just struggling up out of the chair. Wilson resisted the urge to rush over and help. Instead he stayed to watch House push himself up on his cane, arm shaking just a bit, unused as it still was to being the only support for his whole body weight when getting up from a seated position.

House shot him a scathing look. Wilson's right hand crept up to rub the back of his neck. He had no choice. Go over and help and he would be killed for it. Stay and wait for House to manage on his own and he got 'the look'.

Finally House hobbled over to where Wilson was standing. Arriving behind his new desk, he turned back to look at the chair again, then looked at Wilson.

"It's vomit colored. You picked that shade on purpose, right?"

* * *

_House_

He had played along with both Cuddy and Wilson. No big deal. He needed a job, he needed his work or he would go mad. And not slowly but very, very quickly. He could only do his work if he took the damn Vicodin. But if he took it he couldn't do his job as he used to. Catch 22. Damn opiates.

And now Cuddy had delivered a whole box full of applications to his apartment. His office wasn't quite ready yet. Cuddy had mentioned something about a problem with the phone lines. To hell with phone lines. He needed to get out of the house!

But he was stuck here for another two days it seemed. Until the weekend, and on Monday he would finally go back in to work. Back for good, this time. Pathetic, how happy he suddenly was about going to work. He used to avoid work like the plague, Stacy had said. Unless it really was the plague, he silently completed her little joke.

Stacy.

He missed her.

And he hated her.

No.

He didn't hate her. He hated what she had done. Big difference.

There were times when he wished she had at least betrayed him properly. Gone all out, done it right. Not for some middle ground that hadn't worked. If she had shown some gumption and gone for the amputation while he was out for the count, he might actually be better off now. Oh, he would be minus a leg, and struggling with it, that was for sure. He would still be mad at her. But he would quite likely be in a lot less pain and even be more mobile than he was now.

Both he and his physical therapist knew he had reached the end of the line last week. Progressing on to the cane was as far as he was ever going to get. Sure, in time he would probably be able to limp around his apartment unaided, for a few steps at least. On a good day. But this was it.

This was as good as it was going to get.

To distract himself from this depressing thought he lifted the lid off the box Cuddy had sent over via courier earlier. If going into the hospital yesterday and seeing his new offices for himself had done one thing for him, it was making it clear that things had to change. He had had very little influence on things lately; he felt like he was just being dragged along, reacting rather than acting. Whatever his body decided to throw at him, a blood clot, another infection, spasms, bleeds, all he ever did was roll with the punches. And he was sick of it. Seeing his spanking new office yesterday, he decided it was time to change that. He was sick of being sick. Time to stop wallowing in self-pity. If he had to change his practice in order to keep working, then that's what he would do.

And hidden in that box were the people who were going to help him do just that. He took the first handful of folders and did a rough count - there were at least 40 résumés in there! What the hell…

His surprise was interrupted by a knock on the door. Had to be Wilson, he was due for Chinese tonight.

"Use your own key, you moron!"

Ever since staying with him for the first few weeks after Stacy had left, Wilson had had his own key. Which was lucky, because there had been days when House could not have made it to the door under his own steam. Even now he was still grateful he didn't have to get up from the couch.

"Don't shout at me, I come bearing gifts", Wilson muttered as he let himself in and tried to get rid of his overcoat without dropping the takeout bag.

He knew Wilson only came over for takeout every other night because this way he could make sure House ate anything at all. The meds he was on suppressed his appetite and some combinations he had tried, before finally giving up and moving on to Vicodin, had actually made him nauseous. He wasn't sure but going by the waistband of his jeans he had probably lost upwards of twenty pounds since the infarction. Wilson was bound to know the exact amount.

"Hey Wilson", he shouted towards where his friend had disappeared into the kitchen. "Get this, there are at least 40 people who want to work for me!"


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, I appreciate your kind words. **_

* * *

_The 40_

Every single person he had previously taken on for his team had been an internal applicant. That meant that he knew House, and House knew him. Or her. You sifted through the applications, which weren't usually that many, invited the likely candidate for an interview and that was that.

"How on earth am I supposed to decide which ones are worth calling for an interview if I don't know what they look like?" He turned to Wilson, talking around a mouth full of Singapore noodles.

"Oh come on, House, you can't tell me you've never done this before", Wilson scoffed and got up to get himself another beer.

"You read through them, weed out the ones that are clearly below standard, then you go through what's left and decide which ones sound interesting enough that you actually want to talk to them. Then call them for an interview. Where's the problem?"

He pulled himself up to his full height, which turned out to be kind of difficult, slumped as he was on the couch with a carton of Chinese noodles on a cushion in his lap. Not exactly impressive.

"I have taken on new people before, you know, and I have also done interviews before. What I mean is, there's just so many of them. What if I weed out someone who's really a genius?"

Wilson nearly spluttered beer all over the coffee table.

"Seriously? _You_ are worried about that?! What have you done with the Greg House who never thought twice about offending or disappointing anyone?"

It wasn't that, Wilson had it wrong. But he was too tired to explain. What if he weeded out, as Wilson called it, someone who could have been very useful for his team? Lost in his own thoughts he rubbed his thigh. He hadn't even realized he was doing it until Wilson asked if he was okay.

"Huh? Yeah, sure, fine", he replied distractedly and turned to pick another résumé out of the box.

Then he had a brain wave.

"I know, we should just throw darts at the lot of them!"

Wilson grinned. "That sounds a lot more like you. You'll figure it out, I'm sure."

He needed his laptop if he wanted to get anywhere with this. Lost in thought he pushed up off the couch, for a careless second forgetting that he needed his cane to do that. The searing pain shooting through his thigh reminded him.

"Fuck!", was all he could get out before falling back onto the couch and gripping his thigh with both hands, the résumé fallen to the floor. This was bad.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He banged is fists into the couch, the next best thing to pummeling his thigh, which was what he really wanted to do but couldn't. Pain was shooting through his leg in waves, burning him from the inside. His heart was racing, bordering on tachy, and he knew his breath was coming too fast.

Wilson's hand landed on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

"Leave me alone. I'm fine."

That was a lie and he knew that Wilson knew. It was one of those tacit agreements: neither of them would mention what was really going on but Wilson knew anyway what to do.

"Cramp?"

"I said I'm fine."

Double lie. He was sure Wilson could see the muscles spasm through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. Maybe it wasn't too late and he could still stop it. His hands were on autopilot, rubbing and kneading to get some heat going to calm down the muscles that were left.

He hadn't even noticed Wilson had left the room until he came back with the heat pad from the bedroom and plugged it in behind the desk. Without a word he took the pad from him and placed it on his leg. The pain would respond to heat – he hoped. This was a simple spasm, not nerve pain, which should respond to heat. And it did. It took twenty minutes to calm down but it did calm down eventually.

He found the first candidate in the bathroom. Well, sort of. He read the résumés while he was soaking his leg in the tub. After the muscle spasm on the couch, Wilson had offered to draw him a bath. He had felt too crappy to object to being mothered by Wilson. Also, Wilson had elevated mothering to an art form over the last few months.

House knew he was an ungrateful ass for taking Wilson's caring and not responding or thanking him. But even after all these months he was still embarrassed about accepting help and, worse yet, having to ask for it. They had come to the unspoken understanding that Wilson wouldn't mention any of the embarrassing moments to anybody, ever. And there had been plenty of them. More than one man should have to go through in one lifetime. In return House accepted Wilson's mothering without griping. At least that's how it usually worked.

Once House was safely installed in the bath, Wilson withdrew back to the couch, leaving the door ajar; presumably to make sure he didn't drown himself quietly in the tub.

The hot water quickly relaxed his muscles and he was able to go back to reading the small pile of résumés he had brought with him. One went onto the newly created 'definitely not' pile because he had a record. Helpful as always, Cuddy had stuck a post-it note on top of it. She must have had her assistant do some preliminary screening on everything that had come in. This one was quickly followed by one riddled with errors. Doctors didn't need to be able to type. But they had to be able to use a spell checker; this was Doctoring 101. Three others went onto the 'maybe' pile.

And the last one was the one that established the 'possible interview' pile; Allison Cameron's file. Her résumé was flawless, her grades extremely good but just shy of perfect. He didn't want perfection, he wanted drive and commitment. Her cover letter also read well, just the right amount of flattery but otherwise serious and to the point. This was one interview he would definitely need to do.

He'd added one more to the 'definitely not' pile when he nodded off and dropped one résumé in the water. It was unreadable after that and he chalked it up to bad luck and 'it wasn't meant to be'. Then the water got cold. Tomorrow was another day. Only another 30 applications to go through.

Wilson must have heard him pull the plug because he showed up even before all the water had drained. He was too tired to resist when he offered to help him out of the tub. He would need to talk to Henderson about the Vicodin dosage. The pills were keeping his pain under control most of the time but they were making him drowsy. At night he couldn't sleep because he was too uncomfortable in bed and during the day he had trouble staying awake because he hadn't slept all night.

Maybe a nice scotch before bed would solve the problem.

* * *

_Chase_

The next morning he woke feeling more refreshed than he had in at least six months. After Wilson left he had crawled back out of bed and gotten himself a shot of scotch. He shouldn't be drinking while on heavy-duty opiates like Vicodin. But seeing that he would probably be on this or some other opiate for the rest of his life he didn't think that was a viable option. No more alcohol? You must be joking. I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing.

The scotch, combined with his evening dose, had knocked him out fairly quickly and he had slept through for the first time in months.

Having popped his morning batch of pills, including his anti-coagulants and Vicodin, he went about the business of getting out of bed. Over the last few weeks he had perfected his routine and it now took him less than half the time it had taken him only a month ago. Still, 20 minutes to get out of bed and finished in the bathroom was pathetic. Maybe it was a reasonable time for an 80-year-old; for a man in his forties it definitely was pathetic. But he didn't need to go out today, so he had all the time in the world and he didn't even need to get dressed.

Still in his sleep pants, he got himself settled on the couch with a bowl of cereal for breakfast, his laptop and the box with résumés within easy reach. The morning cartoons were on. What more could a man want?

Aside from two healthy legs, that is.

Three hours later he had read every single one of the résumés and drawn up a list of candidates he wanted to see for an interview. It was a short list of only five people.

Time to do some research. He went online to check out the candidates' backgrounds and references.

Most of them checked out; Dr. Cameron's stint as an intern at the Mayo Clinic and her work in their Allergic Disease Research Lab had left at least one professor gushing about her. With a specialty in immunology she sounded like a good candidate. He sent off a short email inviting her for an informal interview next Tuesday. And while he was at it, he also invited Dr. Julia Dent for the same day. She had specialized in pediatrics, indicating she had a broad spectrum of interest.

Two more doctors were invited for Tuesday, may as well get it all over with in one clean sweep. They were Martin Friedman, a young doctor with a specialty in toxicology, and Nikhil Chopra, an oncologist fresh from Harvard.

He invited them for an 'informal interview' because he had no idea yet how he would do this. If he had his way, he would have someone else do the interview and just listen in.

There was one more applicant he wanted to see but considering that he was currently still in Australia, he doubted Cuddy would stretch to paying his expenses for travelling to the interview next Tuesday. He did think this guy was an interesting candidate, though, so he would have to go about it in a different way. Here was one candidate he didn't have to see in person at least.

He verified colleges and schools listed and, naturally, they checked out. He hadn't expected any different. Nobody would be stupid enough to list any credentials that could be that easily debunked. One professor from Notre Dame in Sydney came back to him within an hour, surprising really, considering the time difference.

He had just about read through the professor's reply when his inbox pinged again, this time with an email from Cuddy. This was shaping up to be a busy day after all.

_House, _

_I've received a phone call from a Dr. Rowan Chase. He's recommending one candidate whose application I have already sent over, Dr. Robert Chase. _

_Let me know which ones you think are suitable and I'll sign off on your choice if appropriate. _

_Cuddy_

If appropriate. Right. She was claiming to give him free reign but the leash only reached from her desk to her office door.

With regret, he would just toss that résumé onto the 'definitely not' pile then. He didn't want a fellow who needed someone else's backing to get this job.

Especially not if the 'promoter' was his own father, he thought after looking at the résumé. This was almost funny. Dr. Rowan Chase, who he knew was a top rheumatologist, was recommending his own son, Robert? But then, Chase senior would be aware he wasn't doing his son any favors by recommending him; nepotism was probably frowned upon even in Australian medical circles. There had to be more behind this. At the very least it had served to make him curious. Maybe it was worth talking to Junior after all.

A reply to his invitation for a short video chat came almost immediately. The man was eager, it seemed. Good.

And he looked it. House leaned back on his couch and regarded the fresh face before him, the floppy blond hair and blue eyes. If he based his selection on looks, then he guessed this guy would come out ahead of most female candidates in terms of looks.

"Dr. Chase, you look remarkably perky considering it's the middle of the night and you should be asleep right now rather than talking to me."

The young man grinned. "My star sign is Night Owl, Dr. House. I've been on nights for the last two weeks. I'm up all hours."

And still mentally quick on his feet. Another box ticked for the pretty boy.

"You specialize in intensive care medicine, Dr. Chase. Why does a good Catholic boy not end up in a much more prestigious specialty like dermatology? Lots more chance to do good there and the patients are also more grateful usually, simply on account of more of them being alive when they leave your care."

"I don't need my patients' gratitude, Dr. House. I get paid for my efforts. At least that's the way it works here in Australia. I hope it does in the States, too."

Ah, he was in it for the money. "Then, why not go into cardiology if it's the money you're after?"

The young man on the other side of the globe leaned back with a smile. He was wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and shorts. Jeez, he was doing an interview in boxers, even if he probably wasn't aware the camera was currently showing more than his head and shoulders! Another tick for the surfer dude for being unconventional. And just a little bit dumb. Or maybe he knew full well what the camera was showing. Oh, this was good.

"I never said I was in it for the money alone, Dr. House. That's your interpretation. If that were the case, I wouldn't bother applying for a job overseas; I'd just stay right where I am. And to confuse you even more, I've also garnered quite a few points in surgery, but haven't officially specialized in it. You're trying to figure out my motivation, I get it. Okay, I'll make it easy for you – I don't like being bored. Intensive care isn't boring. Neither is surgery most days. Neither is going abroad. Neither is earning money for the work you do. And neither is learning from a world-renowned doctor. So, that's my motivation right there, hope this fits into one of the boxes you need to fill on the interview sheet."

Sold.

He finished the call and emailed Cuddy the details to arrange visa and other details for the Australian.

He had his first fellow.

* * *

_Cameron_

If it were up to him he would have the candidates parade behind a one-way mirror while he asked them some quick-fire questions via a microphone. Wilson rejected this option, though.

"House, you can't sit them in a room and then question them without ever showing yourself. This is not an interrogation. I'm sure it's probably even illegal on grounds of intimidation or something."

They were having lunch in the hospital, the interviews were scheduled for an hour from now, and Wilson had made him come in to have a bite to eat beforehand. And a bite was exactly what he was having. One bite of Wilson's sandwich, to be precise. It wasn't a very good sandwich and besides, he wasn't hungry anyway.

"I could lock them all in the conference room, give them a case to work on and spy on them through the blinds from my office. Do you think that would work?"

"What? No! House… this isn't a game. You need to filter out the best of these four. Cuddy said you can have two since you already recruited the Australian. Just talk with each of them and then figure out who you want and send the other two packing. It's not that hard."

Oh, but it was. He leaned back in their booth and shot a look at Wilson. Here was the picture of a young, successful doctor: well groomed, a clean, ironed shirt, subtle if slightly boring tie, and his white coat was actually white. Very white. He probably had Julie wash and iron his work clothes.

He himself, on the other hand, had just dressed in what he had found in his closet this morning. His shirt was all wrinkly because he couldn't stand at the ironing board long enough, unsupported. His dress pants had actually fallen off his hips when he tried them on earlier because he had lost so much weight. He had managed to disguise the fact that his jeans only stayed up because he had cinched the belt so tight by wearing his shirt untucked.

Wilson had followed his look and, so it seemed, also his train of thought. He stilled House's hand, which was beating a tattoo on the cafeteria tray between them.

"House, this is not about what they think of you. They want this job. They are here to impress you. Don't forget that forty people applied to work for you. This is a big deal for them. They're the ones who should be nervous, not you. You'll be fine."

Of course he would be.

He settled himself behind his new desk and took out the first candidate's résumé. Wilson positioned himself slightly to one side behind him – probably, House assumed, so it wouldn't seem like he was hiding behind House.

None of the candidates was very impressive, until it was Allison Cameron's turn two and a half hours later. She was the last of the four and by the time she came in he was flagging. His leg hurt like hell but he had left his meds in his backpack and his backpack in the conference room. There was no way he was getting up now to retrieve them.

Wilson must have seen him rubbing his thigh just as Dr. Cameron entered the office.

"Do you want me to get your meds for you", he whispered while at the same time smiling at the gorgeous brunette who was looking at them expectantly.

"No way, I'm fine."

Wilson looked doubtful. Rightly so. House was anything but fine. But he was not going to let Wilson get his pills for him now, which he would then have to take in full view of Dr. Cameron.

"Seriously, Jimmy. _Leave_ it."

It was all he could do not to snark at him in front of the candidate. To make matters worse she smiled and held out her hand for him to shake. He would have to get up.

Shit.

He pushed himself up from his chair with both hands on the desk and then shifted to his left so he could grasp her hand with his right. As expected, he felt his leg cramp right away. He bit back a groan. Little beads of sweat were forming along his hairline.

The only way to get out of this was to get rid of her as soon as possible. The minute she had entered the office she had got the job anyway. No point beating around the bush then.

"Right, Dr. Cameron. Your résumé was very impressive, far better than any of the other applicants. If you're interested, I'd be happy to offer you the job. When can you start?"

Five minutes and one surprised Dr. Cameron later, he sank back in his chair, exhausted. His hands gripped his thigh, desperately trying to control the spasm. It was futile. Wilson had sprinted into the conference room the second the door closed behind Dr. Cameron and he was now holding out the amber vial like a lifesaver.

House dry-swallowed two; one just wouldn't cut it now, things had progressed too far. He vowed to never again leave the Vicodin out of reach like that.

"You're an idiot, House, you know that? What would it have cost you to let me get you the pills earlier? Don't you think she would've preferred to see you swallow a pill instead of seeing you in pain like this?"

He didn't reply. Wilson was right, he had been stupid. If he looked anywhere near as bad as he felt, he was a frightening sight right now.

His silence must have been telling enough for Wilson, though. "Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You're afraid to show weakness. You're afraid to show yourself, let them see your leg. That's why you were freaking out about the interviews. And that's why you're hiding behind the desk. You even have the cane stowed away so none of them could see it from where they were sitting."

"Shut up, Wilson. I was _not_ freaking out."

Wilson stared at him from the other side of his desk. "House, you can't go on like this."

"Seriously, Wilson. Shut up."

But, like a dog with a bone, he just wouldn't let go.

"House, I thought we were past this. Nobody is judging you or giving you the evil eye. You don't need to hide like the phantom of the opera. Don't be so melodramatic. It's only a cane. . ."

That did it. If he had been able to, he would have gotten up and throttled him. As it was he couldn't even conjure up enough energy to sound as angry as he felt.

"SHUT UP, Wilson! You have no idea what you're talking about! It's only a cane? _Seriously_? Do you even know me? And where were you over the last six months?"

To his shame he felt a lump rise in his throat. But he would be damned if he let Wilson see how close to the core he had cut this time.

"You have _no_ idea what it's like. Care to take a guess why I'm not wearing my suits anymore? Or iron my shirts? Or why I'm constantly tired during the day? Or why I've sold my car and gotten that old rust bucket instead? No? Didn't think so. So do us both a favor, Wilson. Piss off."

To his credit, Wilson knew when to retreat. Head low, he backed away from the desk and then left the office without another word.

He managed to hold it together until the door quietly closed behind Wilson.

* * *

_Justification_

"So, which of the other three are you taking?"

Wilson was back the next day. House had been sitting in his new chair, deep into the current issue of JASN when Wilson came into his office, carrying muffins and coffee from the cafeteria. A peace offering then. Neither of them mentioned the fight. Or the actual issue they had argued about. They were getting very adept at ignoring the herd of elephants that had assembled in the room over the last few months. It was getting a bit crowded.

"None", he said with his mouth full of blueberry muffin.

"Huh?"

The confusion on Wilson's face was plain.

"But why? You can take one more and that toxicology guy seemed pretty good. Or maybe the pediatrician? The oncologist? He knew his stuff. I thought you wanted me here to check him out. House, you'd be stupid not to take one of them. You have the budget, why not use it?"

Clearly Wilson wasn't fully awake yet or he wouldn't be asking such stupid questions.

"Don't need either of them. I can handle the toxicology myself; don't you think I've got enough experience with all sorts of substances at this point? And an oncologist? What for? I've already got one in the office right next door and his salary isn't coming out of my budget."

"Okay, but why Cameron instead of Dent? Why immunology instead of pediatrics? You'd think the pediatrician would have a broader spectrum of knowledge, so why not her?"

Clearly this would take a while to explain.

"Wilson, are you really that dense? I don't need broad knowledge, I have that myself. I want experts. But even more important – were you asleep when Dent was in here? Why would I choose her over Cameron?"

Julia Dent was a homely looking, friendly young woman, and there was nothing wrong with her at all. Except that she looked frumpy next to Cameron.

Wilson was slowly catching on. "Wait. Are you saying you've taken Cameron because she's prettier than Dent? You're unbelievable! What are you going to say when Cuddy asks you to justify your choice? You can't do that, House. That's discrimination."

"No, it isn't. They both had about the same grades. They're both ambitious. One of them is very pretty, the other one isn't. I'm taking the pretty one because she's going to be nice to look at. And, just in case you think I'm really that shallow, I'm taking her because she has no reason to be working so hard. She's pretty enough to get by without doing much work. And yet she's been in the top 5% of her class, she's done extra work; she is outstanding according to her profs. Dent needs to work hard; she's got nothing else going for her. Cameron doesn't. She could just sit back on her pretty little ass and wait for everything to fall in her lap. I want the woman with drive and commitment and curiosity, Wilson. And I'm getting her."

And he did. Cuddy didn't even ask why he had picked whom he had from the list of forty candidates. She did raise an eyebrow, however, when he told her he would not be taking on a third fellow at this point.

"Why on earth not? You can't tell me there wasn't at least one more good application in that box. I know it's not true, I had a quick look at the résumés myself. There were at least another five interesting candidates. What game is this, House? Because I'm telling you right now, I'm not playing. I've got enough on my plate with the board over this, I don't need you being a pain in my butt before your department is even up and running."

He was not playing any game at all but it would be next to impossible to convince Cuddy of that. She was expecting him to have a hidden agenda when really all he had was no good reason to pick another candidate. He knew why he wanted the Australian and Cameron, that was all.

"You should be happy I'm not using all your money yet. Rejoice, Cuddy. It won't last."

* * *

_Foreman_

A few weeks after his two fellows started their jobs he figured out what was wrong with his selection.

"Look at them", he said to Wilson while they were having coffee in his office. The door to the conference room was closed but they could see both Cameron and Chase sitting at the table reading case files.

"Why, what's wrong with them? Oh… you mean they're not working? Yeah, I've been wondering about that."

He threw cookie crumbs at Wilson's coffee mug. Three tries, two hits. He was getting better.

"No, you idiot. They are working. They're covering my clinic hours. And Cameron is doing my mail every morning. We don't have any case, that's all. Everything they keep dragging up for me is a joke. No, what I mean is _look_ at them. It's obvious what's wrong."

Wilson stared through the glass door at the two young fellows. You could actually hear the wheels in his head turning. They were making loud, creaky noises. Clearly they needed greasing. They were all rusty from disuse.

"They're too good to be true, Wilson. They're like Snow White and Prince Charming. Goody two shoes. One prettier than the other. This is not going to work once we get actual cases. I need an ogre to join the party. Someone with street smarts, someone gritty."

This was how he went back to the box of applications that he still hadn't given back to Cuddy for filing, despite several, increasingly annoying, requests.

There were twenty more applications in the 'maybe' pile but none of them was what he was looking for. Had anyone asked what it actually was he was expecting to find, he could not have said. Team member Number Three would have to complement the others in medical expertise as well as personality. None of the 'maybes' had anything special. It was very disappointing.

One night, in a fit of desperation, and under the influence of two glasses of scotch, he grabbed the 'definitely not' pile.

He got rid of the stupids, the ones that couldn't even use a spell checker or quote correctly. That left exactly two résumés - the one he had dropped in the bath and that was therefore unreadable and the one with Cuddy's post-it saying 'juvenile record' on it. He hadn't looked at that application at all because he had been so overwhelmed by the sheer number of them that he was grateful for Cuddy having already run the basic checks for him to filter out any time wasters.

If something is important, always do the work yourself. He should have realized that right at the start.

"Dr. Eric Foreman?"

"Yes. Who is this? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes, I do realize it's late. But I thought you might be interested to hear that I'm currently looking at your résumé…"

"Right. Is this for the Peripheral Nerve Group at the Mayo Clinic? Thank you for calling back... "

"No, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, this is for the Diagnostics team. I'm looking for one more fellow."

"Oh. Okay. Hang on, is this Dr. House? It's great to finally hear from you …"

"Yes, that's me. If you want to come in tomorrow at 3pm to discuss the details, I'll make time for you then."

That should give him enough time to find out what exactly he was on record for and whether or not he could use him. Truth be told, the guy sounded pretty arrogant on the phone. But then, looking at the résumé, maybe he had reason to be. House was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and have him explain himself and his amazing 4.0 GPA through med school.

How did a guy with a record end up a neurologist from Johns Hopkins with a perfect grade average? It was intriguing enough to go to the trouble of one more meeting.

But this one was not going to be another debacle of Cameron-type proportions. Since that disastrous interview he had made sure to have his Vicodin handy at all times. He also didn't give a damn anymore about anyone witnessing him taking a pill. Better this than being seen in pain. A reputation as a pill popper he could handle. However, having a future employee see him in agony, possibly in tears if it got really bad, was not an option.

Pills or pain, that's what it all boiled down to in the end. The two big Ps in his life. He had made his choice.

He spent the morning before the interview on the phone with various people at Johns Hopkins and, after he had exhausted that avenue of investigation, high school teachers. It took three hours of seemingly endless questions and sneaky lies to finally hit pay dirt.

When Eric Foreman entered the Diagnostics department at 3pm sharp House knew he would be offering him the job before the 20 minutes he had allowed for this meeting were up. Unless the man turned out to be a total idiot.

Which he didn't. He turned out to be a smart dresser, smooth talker and quite intelligent doctor indeed. And his dark good looks complemented House's other two beauties perfectly.

Wilson showed up after House had sent Foreman into the conference room to talk to Cameron and Chase. At the moment the three of them were awkwardly passing sugar and creamer for their coffees around the table. They knew he was watching; he had made no secret of that. But House knew they couldn't figure out what they were supposed to do – either the new guy got the job or not, it wasn't up to the other two to decide that.

"Have you found your ogre? It's just that he doesn't look very ogre-like to me."

"Turns out I wasn't looking for an ogre after all. Just an ugly duckling. Aw, Wilson, look at them. They love each other already."

Wilson leaned against the glass door and frowned. He really didn't see it.

"Huh. You do know the ugly duckling turns out to be a swan in the end, right?"

House sighed. He would have to work on his metaphors. Either that or send Wilson on an advanced course for House speak.

"Yes, Wilson, I know. And I even found a rare black one."

"Nice, House, very nice. I'm glad your quest was successful. I'll leave you and your ducklings. Some of us actually have work to do."

Once Wilson was gone, he grabbed his cane, checked his pocket to make sure everything was where it should be, and opened the door to the conference room.

"Right, if you kids are done making nice, maybe you can manage to find me a proper case. I'm not paying you to sit around all day."


End file.
